


poet

by crashing_into_the_sun



Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Angst, Boys Kissing, Crying, Fluff, Gay, Kissing, M/M, One Shot, Poetry, SnowBaz, after Watford, angsty fluff??, baz is a writer, fluffy angst??, gay boys, its something idk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-27
Updated: 2016-04-27
Packaged: 2018-06-04 20:46:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6674929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crashing_into_the_sun/pseuds/crashing_into_the_sun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Simon discovers a box of Baz's poems while he's away. Takes place after the events of Carry On.</p>
            </blockquote>





	poet

The day starts out just like any other. Simon awakens, tangled helplessly and happily in Baz, their limbs (including Simon's extra ones) intertwined. He opens his eyes just a hint, sees the sunlight streaming in through the window and illuminating Baz's sharp-lined face, and smiles to himself. A warm, sleepy thought floats through his head all alone. _Mine_ , he almost whispers aloud. _All mine_. The cadence of the words lulls him back to sleep.

Simon revels in the sweetness of his dreams, a rarity for him even when Baz is around. He dreams of caressing Baz's face and whispering sweet nothings in his ears. He dreams of watching movies with Penny and Baz, his own (slightly dysfunctional) family. And when Baz wakes him up and asks if he wants breakfast, he's pleased to see that it's just as amazing to be awake as it is to be asleep. Sometimes he forgets how good he really has it.

The smell of pancakes wafts in from the kitchen, and Simon laughs when he hears Penny chewing Baz out for sleeping over for the fourth night in a row ("You might as well move in- you don't pay the rent, you just sleep in our beds and eat all our food,"). He sits up, a little dazed, and rubs the sleep from his eyes, then saunters out into the kitchen. Baz is at the stove, tapping his sock-clad toes on the floor impatiently, flipping the pancakes too often and humming under his breath. Simon's face breaks into a grin and he hurries up to Baz and wraps his arms around Baz's middle, startling him. Baz takes a quick breath and then turns around, smirking at Simon before enveloping him in a tight embrace and placing a soft kiss on his forehead. "Not right now, love, I'm making breakfast."

"Oh, get a room," Penny shouts from across the flat, and all three of them laugh. _This_ , Simon thinks to himself. _This is how I want to spend the rest of my life._

******************************

An hour later, Penny goes to work and Baz leaves for his early morning Renaissance Lit class ("What good is Renaissance Literature in real life?" "None. That's why I'm taking it,") and Simon is left alone in the flat. As Penny walks out the door, she casts **These Aren't the Droids You're Looking For** , just in case Simon wants to leave at some point before either of them get back. He almost never does. Simon microwaves some popcorn, flops out the couch, and puts on reruns of _Friends_. He texts Baz something short and sweet ( _missing u already <3_) and naps on and off for a few hours. When he gets up, he can't find his shoes and he wants to go for a walk.

And then he finds the box.

It's not much (that's probably the point). A plain, nondescript wooden box shoved far, far beneath the bed. He wouldn't even give it a second glance if he didn't see a small carving on the side in ridiculous, posh longhand. _T. Basilton Grimm-Pitch_ , it says. Baz leaves stuff at their flat all the time, but this seems different, somehow. Simon clambers awkwardly from under the bed clutching the box. There's no lock. He's never seen this box before. On closer inspection, it's really quite beautiful, with smooth, reddish cedar wood, no bigger than the span from Simon's longest finger to the start of his wrist. A small voice in the back corner of Simon's voice screams _This isn't yours to look at! Put it back_! But Simon's never been very good at listening to himself and so he opens it.

He is assaulted by pastel colors- blues and greens, rosy pinks and lilac purples, soft yellows and neon oranges. Sticky notes, there must be hundreds of them. Simon's hand hovers over them for a moment, not sure if he should touch them. They seem fragile somehow, delicate, maybe like a bubble. If he touches them, they might disappear, shatter into a million infinitesimal fragments.

He does it anyway (It's Simon. What else would you expect?). Gingerly, he lifts a random sticky note, light blue and curling slightly at the edges, from the box. Smudged black ink covers the thing, and Baz's handwriting is immediately recognizable- long, elegant swoops and flourishes at the end of words. It's dated in the corner, and it's from a few months into seventh year.

Simon always knew Baz was good with words, but he didn't know that he was this good.

  
_he holds a beauty inside him that shines_

_so bright it imprints itself onto the backs of my eyelids_

_and whenever i look away from him to try and catch my breath_

_there he is again_

_i can't stand it_

_he's like the sun_

_but the sun is a star, too_

_the seconds tick down until he explodes and takes us all with him_

  
The next one comes from fifth year, just before final exams.

  
_i think i really do love him_

_but I'm a pro at second guessing_

_if this is love then why do i still have so much hate in my core?_

_i thought you had to love yourself before you could love anyone else_

_but i still think i am nothing more than_

_a shattering of mismatched, broken pieces_

_how can i love him?_

_i have to love him_

_i don't know how to do anything else_

Now Simon is crying, silent tears streaming down his face. The next note is short and has bloodstains on the corner. It makes Simon cringe.

  
_i collect blood in a chipped teacup_

_and drink it when I'm drowsy_

_i find it far more effective than caffeine_

  
The date on one of them catches Simon's eye- just last week.

  
_how can an angel like him love a demon like me?_

_he is so alive; the most alive i've ever seen a person_

_he has so much soul. maybe that's why i love him_

_i am trying to make up for the soul_

_i lost_

Simon's fumbling fingers somehow manage to press Baz's name in his contacts and call him. "What?" he picks up the phone, sounding slightly annoyed. "I'm in the middle of class, Si."

"B-Baz," Simon whispers in stilted breaths. "Baz, darling, you are a poet of epic proportions," Simon pauses. "And you need to c-come home." He hangs up. Baz runs from the classroom, ignoring the confused glares. _He called me darling._

*****************************

Baz throws open the door and breezes into the house, his coat catching a lamp on his way to the bedroom and knocking it to the floor. Maybe it shatters, he doesn't look, he doesn't care. "Simon?" he bellows, voice rich with confusion. "Where are you?" He hears a small squeak from inside the bedroom.

Simon is a sight. He's curled in a ball, sobs leaking from behind the hand covering his mouth, and a box lays ajar a few inches from his feet, surrounded by colorful scraps of paper.

_Oh, fuck._

"You... you weren't supposed to see those," Baz stutters. "You were never supposed to see those." Simon just nods. Baz notices he's holding one in his hand, clutching it so tight the knuckles on his bronze hands are turning white. Gently, gently, Baz walks over like he's approaching a wounded animal, and holds out his hand. Simon drops the piece of paper into Baz's outstretched palm.

It's not one of Baz's poems.

Simon's barely-legible scrawl covers one side of a sticky note in green crayon (he's scribbled out whatever was on the front). Baz reads it. A small choking sound comes involuntarily from the back of his throat.

Simon's no writer. There's spelling mistakes and the pace is all wrong, and if Baz was in an English class he'd be expected to pick it to bits. But it's perfect all the same.

  
_i love a boy with lovley grey eyes_

_i wake up to him in the morning and all i think is_

_wow, he is beautifull_

_he doesnt love himself but thats OK_

_because i love him more than enough for both of us_

  
"Simon," Baz breathes and drops the note to the floor. He sits next to Simon on the floor and holds him to his chest, stroking his tangled curls. "Shhh, shhh," Baz reassures him gently. "I'm here. I've got you. I've got you, love." Simon's sobs slow down and turn into huge, gulping breaths.

"B-B-Baz I l-love you, I love y-you," he stumbles over his words, blinking too fast and clutching the back of Baz's shirt like he'll never let go. "I love you s-s-so m-much and, and you n-need to know th-that." Simon's voice quiets to a whisper that even from this close and with his exemplary hearing, Baz can barely detect. "You're n-not a monster." An unwanted tear drips from Baz's pale cheek onto the top of Simon's head.

"You don't know that."

"Yes, I do, Baz!" Simon pulls away angrily. "You're s-so fucking _beautiful_ and you d-don't even see it."

"I'm _dead_ , Simon. My heart doesn't beat. I have to kill things to survive. Dead things aren't beautiful."

"You're not d-dead. You're not dead and you're not a monster. You're _mine_ , you're _beautiful_ , I _love_ you, Basil-" And then all Simon can feel is Baz's cold lips pressing against his own, Baz's calloused hands traveling up and down his back, Baz, Baz, _Baz_.

The world spins faster when Simon's kissing Baz, and the stars fall from the sky and the clouds break open and pour out music. Simon pulls away for a second, his lips centimeters from Baz's.

"I love you, Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch." _Kiss_. "I'll love you," _Kiss_. "until you learn to love yourself. And then," _Kiss_. "I'll love you even more."


End file.
